


it's time for you to slowly let these changes make you more holy and true

by knoxoursavior



Series: i steal a few breaths from the world for a minute [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, ch 395 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24679927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: You have a friend request from Iwaizumi Hajime.Wakatoshi stares at the notification far too long. He isn't quite sure what to think, but he supposes there's no harm in accepting it.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Series: i steal a few breaths from the world for a minute [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1835974
Comments: 45
Kudos: 304





	1. otherwise, you just made it complicated for nothing

**Author's Note:**

> yall i am still reeling from ch 395.. seeing ushijima in a situation where he is out of his depth was a cultural reset and having iwa appear in his flashback makes me so !!!!! happy still ugh furudate rly said iwaushi rights
> 
> anw if u aren't caught up w the manga, this takes place right after the flashback in ch 395 where iwa and ushi meet at uc irvine and they get coffee :) ushi is playing for the national team at worlds & iwa is in cali bc he was looking for ushi's dad, who wrote a book that he probably religiously reads & also bc iwa wants to intern w ushi's dad i think??
> 
> also ty to [ms maam @completist_](https://twitter.com/completist_) for looking over this and also for listening to me struggle w this for 2 weeks oof

_Friend request from Iwaizumi Hajime_ : **_ACCEPTED_**.

  
  


_ Ushijima Wakatoshi sent a video _ .

**Hajime** : Looking good!!

**Wakatoshi** : Thank you. I'm getting used to it. 

**Hajime** : I'm glad it's working out for you. 

**Hajime** : And thank you for updating me. :)

  
  


Wakatoshi is the only member of the national team who was recruited straight from high school. He isn't oblivious enough not to know how big of a deal it is, but sometimes he thinks it would have been better if he didn't figure it out. Maybe if he didn't know how much they're expecting from him, he wouldn't feel this immense pressure threatening to crush him.

He's been very lucky before this. He's good at volleyball, better than a lot of his peers, and he wouldn't hesitate to admit it. He's worked hard from the start and it always showed. But Worlds is an entirely different monster than any high school tournament, and even his experience in the Youth Worlds Championship can't compare.

Still, he works hard. He trains everyday. He learns from his teammates who have so much more experience than he does. He watches tape of previous games and he works with his trainers everyday, figuring out the things that work for him and the things that don't.

And, for some reason, he talks to Iwaizumi Hajime maybe a little too much. Mostly about volleyball, because most of Wakatoshi's conversations center on volleyball anyway and Iwaizumi is very helpful when it comes to volleyball. Not everything he suggests works out, but Wakatoshi can say the same of his coach and his trainers. Iwaizumi gives just as many good suggestions as they do, which his dad says is very good for a second year sports science student.

And it's nice, having someone familiar. He has his dad, his friends half a world away from him, and Iwaizumi Hajime.

  
  


**Hajime** : Hey, I saw your game last night. That block in the third set must have felt awful.

**Wakatoshi** : It did. Just some swelling on my right hand, so I should be okay.

**Hajime** : That's good! :) 

  
  


Japan makes it through the preliminaries. Wakatoshi feels like he hasn't done enough to prove himself, but there are still more matches to come, more time to learn and improve and contribute to his team.

Their coach pulls him aside after practice and tells him as much, but there's a catch.

“Listen, kid. I wanted to warn you before it's official,” he says. The feeling of dread that flares in Wakatoshi's gut is familiar. “We're taking you off the starting lineup for the next game.”

Wakatoshi has always been a starter. Wakatoshi has always been the ace. Wakatoshi is playing in the national team and he's very much out of his depth. But that's okay. He'll be okay.

“Okay,” he says, and surprises himself with how steady his voice is. He doesn't attempt to say anything more.

Coach frowns. Maybe some of what he's feeling is showing on his face. Or maybe nothing at all is showing. Semi says his face tends to do that sometimes, and that it's worrying. 

“It's just for a few games, kid. Focus on getting that new arm swing down first, alright?” 

Wakatoshi nods, which seems to satisfy their coach. He claps Wakatoshi on his shoulder and walks away.

This is fine. This is okay. Coach said it's just for a few games. The team isn't doing as well as they'd like, so they're testing other lineups. And that's  _ okay _ . Volleyball is a team sport, and maybe he's not quite what's best for the team right now. Coach doesn't know that yet, and that's why he wants to try something else.

Maybe if Wakatoshi gets his new arm swing down, he will be what's best for the team again. This is fine.

  
  


**Wakatoshi** : Are you busy tomorrow night?

**Hajime** : It depends. I have to write an essay due the next day. Need me for something? 

**Wakatoshi** : I was hoping that you could watch me practice. 

**Wakatoshi** : In person, I mean. You don't have to.

**Hajime** : What about Friday instead? I really can't tomorrow.

**Wakatoshi** : Okay. See you Friday.

  
  


Iwaizumi is decent at tossing. Maybe Wakatoshi shouldn't be so surprised. Any decent volleyball player should be at least passable in all aspects of the sport. Wakatoshi has to be good at spiking, but he also has to be good at serving and blocking, and he's had to learn to be good at receiving.

He knows how people perceive him—a monster on the court, powerful, unstoppable. It's what got him into Shiratorizawa and it's what carried him up to the national team. But he knows better than to think it's all that matters. He knows better now. Power and strength is important, yes, especially for a player like him, but even with those he is nothing if he doesn't work hard, and he could very easily dwindle into nothing if he isn't well-rounded. 

But—well, maybe it isn't so complicated. Iwaizumi had Oikawa by his side for years after all. Of course he'd be decent at tossing a ball.

“Well? What do you think?” 

Wakatoshi turns to Iwaizumi. He very carefully does not hold his breath.

Iwaizumi tilts his head. He isn't really looking at Wakatoshi as he thinks, but Wakatoshi feels the weight of his attention anyway. 

“You look kind of unsure, I think. Like you aren't really committing to it.”

Wakatoshi feels indignance rising in him before Iwaizumi even finishes speaking. 

“I'm not committing to it?” he says, and he knows his voice has risen. He knows he should calm down, and he does. He breathes through it and fools himself into believing he shouldn't be offended.

He doesn't think anyone's ever told him he couldn't commit to anything related to volleyball.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. 

“Don't look at me like that,” he says, and abruptly throws Wakatoshi a ball that he easily receives, even at the awful angle Iwaizumi sent it.

Wakatoshi raises his eyebrows at Iwaizumi.  _ See _ , he's very committed.

“I just mean—” Iwaizumi cuts himself off. He crosses his arms and closes his eyes, and then the crease between his eyebrows becomes even more pronounced. Wakatoshi is suddenly reminded of Goshiki; in the rare moments that he thought before he spoke, he'd do the same thing too. Wakatoshi wonders if he still does, now. He hasn't checked on his Shiratorizawa juniors in a while.

When Iwaizumi finally opens his eyes again, his gaze is firm.

“It's like midway into the spike you want to go back to your old swing. That's what I'm getting. If you're uncomfortable with this new swing, then it doesn't matter if you're getting more powerful spikes from it. We can always find something else,” Iwaizumi says. “But if you're just doubting yourself because it isn't working out quicker than you'd like, then I don't know what to say to you.”

Wakatoshi looks away. He has never been a coward when it comes to volleyball. He stands tall and firm. He overwhelms his opponents with his power and climbs over them as he drags his team to the top.

Or he used to, anyway. Things haven't been the same since he left Shiratorizawa.

“It feels like I'm starting from scratch,” he admits. 

Iwaizumi purses his lips. “Maybe you are, and that's okay. It hasn't even been a month since you started with your new swing. How long did it take you to get your old one down, huh?” 

“A long time,” he says.

Wakatoshi remembers practicing until his palm became numb, until he had to stop for his own good, to step away from the court and give himself time to breathe. He practiced until his spike could break through his opponent's block, and then when another team managed to stop it, he practiced again until he could send a ball through them and over to their side of the court too. 

“But you got there, right?” Iwaizumi says. And yes, he did. Yes, but this is  _ Worlds _ . This is the national team. This is Japan. He should have gotten there months ago, when they were training for it.

“I don't—” Wakatoshi feels like screaming, but he doesn't. Screaming doesn't get him anywhere. Carefully quiet, he says, “Worlds ends in two months. I don't even know if we'll last that long.”

Iwaizumi matches all of Wakatoshi's careful control with dogged intensity. His eyebrows furrow and his nostrils flare; he bares his teeth like a wild animal and Wakatoshi is hit with the urge to run or to surrender. 

“So what if you don't make it that far? There's next year, and the year after that, and the year after that.”

“If they'll even have me again.”

Wakatoshi sees the way Iwaizumi's jaw works, the way he takes a deep breath and holds it— _ one, two, three _ .

“God, you're just like Oikawa,” he says, and it feels more like a punch than just words murmured between them. “They can all eat shit if they don't take you back. You're Ushiwaka. You walked all over us for years and you did it easily. You're only going to get better if you keep working for it, so of course they're going to ask you to come back, stupid.”

Somewhere in his head, Wakatoshi knows this. He believes it, even. But he can't help the few instances when the pressure manages to outweigh his confidence. 

“Okay.”

Iwaizumi blinks. “Okay?”

Wakatoshi nods. “Okay,” he repeats. “I get it. Toss.”

“Uh,” Iwaizumi says, instead of tossing Wakatoshi a ball. “Sorry I called you stupid?” 

Wakatoshi sighs, but he feels his lips curling into a smile anyway.

“ _ Toss _ , Iwaizumi.”

  
  


**Wakatoshi** : Hey. Thank you for helping me out today.

**Wakatoshi** : If you want to watch some games, I can get you tickets. Just tell me when you're free.

**Hajime** : I might just take you up on that. I'd love a ticket for your game against Brazil next week.

**Wakatoshi** : Done. 

  
  


Wakatoshi ends up playing half the game that he doesn't start. His new swing gets them a couple of points, but they still end up losing 1-3. It's as disappointing as it is elating, and Wakatoshi isn't quite sure what to do with the odd mix of feelings.

Iwaizumi doesn't seem so conflicted though. His grin is wide when he greets Wakatoshi after the game.

“Hey, good game!” he says. He reaches out and takes Wakatoshi's bag. Wakatoshi isn't sure why he lets it happen.

“I suppose. We lost, though,” he says. His eyebrows furrow as he watches Iwaizumi place his bag over his shoulder.

“And that sucks,” Iwaizumi replies easily, “but hey! Your spikes looked good today.”

Wakatoshi's spikes did feel great today. It's nice to know that Iwaizumi noticed. Even so, he narrows his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Aren't you going to say anything about us losing? The team is more important than the individual—isn't that what they say?” Wakatoshi says. He knows this. Players make up the whole team, and that's why every player has to be strong. Every player has their own duty, their own space to fill, their own burden to carry, but in the end they are nothing without their team.

And today, Japan's loss is Wakatoshi's loss. Their coach didn't need to remind them in the locker room for Wakatoshi to know it.

Iwaizumi should know too. He was part of a team. A team that Wakatoshi believed to be lesser than his own—and shouldn't that mean Iwaizumi would understand better than anyone, except maybe Oikawa, how he feels?

But then, Iwaizumi says, “Yeah, but you're my only friend on the national team. I can be happy that you're doing well.” 

And that turns Wakatoshi's world on its axis. Satori is his friend. Reon is his friend. Other than them, he doesn't think he's had many friends.

“You're my friend too,” he says, and panics. He didn't mean to say it. It wasn't even Iwaizumi's point.

But then Iwaizumi smiles, wide and bright, and all is forgotten.

“So, you and your team gonna do something after?” Iwaizumi asks, and Wakatoshi welcomes the change in subject happily. 

“No,” he replies. When he doesn't elaborate, Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow at him. He amends, “We're free to do what we want after games.”

Iwaizumi nods. “Cool. Wanna get something to eat?”

“Okay,” Wakatoshi says.

When he tries to get his bag back from Iwaizumi, he is met with resistance. And again, and again. He gives up eventually, and Iwaizumi grins at him for it.

  
  


**Wakatoshi** : Do you want a ticket for our next game?

**Hajime** : Yeah, thank you. :)

**Hajime** : Want my help with practice soon?

**Wakatoshi** : Yes. Please.

**Hajime** : Okay. Just say when.

  
  


Somehow, Japan makes it to the semifinals.

It doesn’t really sink in until Wakatoshi is in the middle of dinner with his teammates and the entirety of their staff. They're eating at the best Japanese restaurant this side of America, sponsored entirely by its second-generation Japanese owner, who approaches them in the middle of dessert to congratulate them.

Wakatoshi has been so absorbed in getting through one game at a time and improving his new arm swing one spike at a time that he’s completely missed their place in the rankings. They’re doing well enough in the competition that they’ve managed to trudge their way to semifinals. Sure, they had to fight tooth and nail for their wins, but they got those wins nonetheless.

Winning isn’t new to Wakatoshi. He’s familiar with the righteous elation that comes after a win. But this feeling that has sparked inside him, that fills him, that overwhelms him—this isn’t the same thing. He hasn’t had to fight this hard before, hasn’t had to strip himself down and build himself back up again in the middle of a tournament. He knows, as he looks around at his cheering teammates, that this is hard-earned vindication.

There is more to come, of course there is. But there is fire renewed in him, and Wakatoshi hopes that it will carry him as far as it can.

  
  


**Hajime** : Heard you got into semifinals! Congrats, man. :) 

**Hajime** : Sorry I haven't been able to watch your last few games. I'll make it up to you soon!! 

**Wakatoshi** : Thank you. Good luck with finals.

**Wakatoshi** : :)

  
  


There's a one-week period during which there is near radio silence from Iwaizumi.  _ Near _ because sometimes, he still sends Wakatoshi links to videos or articles that he finds during breaks. Wakatoshi would worry that Iwaizumi isn't utilizing his breaks the way he should be, but Iwaizumi insists that it's okay and that he enjoys it, and Wakatoshi has no choice but to believe him.

But Iwaizumi's semester has finally ended. Today's his first day free, and he arrives fresh-faced and freshly showered, judging by the flatness of his hair and the stray dark spots dotting the fabric along his shoulders. He looks exactly like he slept through the entire morning and half the afternoon. Wakatoshi is happy for him.

“I missed this,” Iwaizumi says.

It's the first thing out of his mouth, the first that Wakatoshi hears from him all week; it makes him smile. 

“It's only been a week,” Wakatoshi says, but already, he's throwing a ball Iwaizumi's way before he can even set his bag down.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but he catches the ball anyway and tucks it under his arm.

“Yeah, I've been gone a week. A  _ week _ . And just because I was busy, doesn't mean I haven't seen your games,” he says, and there's something about his tone that makes Wakatoshi freeze. He feels absurdly like a rookie squirming under his senior's attention. 

Wakatoshi nods; he knows exactly what he's done. Iwaizumi sighs. 

“Gonna tell me what happened?” 

Wakatoshi doesn't really want to, but this is Iwaizumi.  _ It's just Iwaizumi. _

“Am I boring to watch when I play?” 

He watches as Iwaizumi's face slackens before his expression morphs into blazing anger. Wakatoshi feels his throat closing up with worry, feels a sliver of fear because he doesn't want Iwaizumi to be mad at him, he doesn't—

“Who said that?” Iwaizumi demands, and  _ oh _ , Wakatoshi thinks. This is Iwaizumi's fierce protectiveness rearing its head, and for once, it isn't against him, but for him.

“No one,” Wakatoshi says, because really, it was just a kid saying whatever he wanted; he doesn't deserve Iwaizumi's anger. But then— _ Japan suffers close loss, star "Young Cannon" misfires _ . It isn't just that little kid who thinks so.

His hands curl into fists at his sides. He does not look at Iwaizumi.

“Everyone thinks so.”

He doesn't notice Iwaizumi coming closer until he's already in Wakatoshi's field of vision. Still carrying his bag, still with the volleyball tucked under his arm, until he drops both in favor of holding Wakatoshi's wrists in his hands.

“This is Worlds,” Iwaizumi says. “Everyone's watching and everyone has their own opinion. You can't listen to every little thing they say.”

Wakatoshi still can't look at him, but he stares down at their hands. Iwaizumi has always had tan skin, but the Californian sun has made it deeper and brought about freckles that are peppered across his skin. Or maybe he's always had freckles. Wakatoshi wouldn't know; they might as well have been enemies in high school. 

“They're right though. I'm not good yet, so I'm boring,” he says.

He knows it. He's accepted it. He's aware of what he has to do to remedy it. And he wants to say all of this but the words are stuck in his throat.

He looks up at Iwaizumi.

“Well fuck them, then. You're in the national team, playing and keeping up with people who are supposed to be ahead of you by  _ years _ , and you're suddenly not good because you're still getting used to a new technique? Fuck them,” Iwaizumi says. His words are fire, barely suppressed, thrown around for Wakatoshi's sake and it's—it takes his breath away. “Watch—in a few years you'll be at the top of your game and they'll be wondering why they ever thought you were  _ boring _ .”

There is a difference, Wakatoshi realizes, between knowing and believing. He knows his own limits and capabilities, knows his own worth and what he lacks as a volleyball player. He knows what heights he can reach as a volleyball player if he keeps going and trying and improving himself.

But the way Iwaizumi talks, the way Iwaizumi looks at him—it makes Wakatoshi want to believe that he  _ will _ be better than he is right now.

“They will,” he says, and Iwaizumi's grip tightening around his wrists is his only warning before he's hit with the full force of Iwaizumi's smile. 

“You'll make sure of it.”

“I will,” Wakatoshi says. He pauses, considering, and then—“Fuck them.”

Iwaizumi laughs.

“You don't need to say it if you don't want to,” he says, and when Wakatoshi nods, he lets Wakatoshi's wrists go and turns away. “Come on, let's start practicing.”

Wakatoshi would be disappointed, but Iwaizumi only does it so he can pick up the ball again, so maybe it's okay.

Iwaizumi's first toss connects with the swing of Wakatoshi's arm, and the ball is sent to the other side of the court with a resounding  _ boom! _ It's definitely more than okay. 

  
  


**Hajime** : Hey. Your game's tomorrow, right?

**Wakatoshi** : Yes.

**Hajime** : Okay.

**Hajime** : See you tomorrow then!

**Wakatoshi** : Okay? 

**Hajime** : Don't worry about it. :)

  
  


Wakatoshi does not worry about it. He gets through practice with the team and only wonders once what Iwaizumi is planning. Twice, maybe. Thrice if he's being generous about the definition of  _ worrying _ .

Iwaizumi doesn't explain when they finally meet, and Wakatoshi doesn't ask. An hour into practice, though, Iwaizumi says, “We should stop here.”

Wakatoshi is still tense, hands poised in front of him to receive a ball. He stands up straight. “Why?” 

“It's your game tomorrow,” Iwaizumi explains, but Wakatoshi knows that.

“It's at night,” he says. It isn't even until nine o'clock in the evening. He has plenty of time to rest.

But Iwaizumi doesn't relent, says, “Yeah, but still. We're taking a break.”

Wakatoshi isn't a fool, no matter what some people say about him. He knows the value of rest. He's had to learn the hard way because of his stubbornness; he doesn't need nor want a repeat for one of the most important matches of his life so far.

But—practice is going well. And he isn't tired yet. Well, maybe he is a little tired, but not enough to want to stop.

But Iwaizumi has already started to clean up, and Wakatoshi just stands there, looking for an excuse to stop him.

Iwaizumi looks up at him, raises an eyebrow, and says, “What, you aren't gonna help me?”

Wakatoshi can't exactly say no, and so he scrambles to help. When Iwaizumi tells him to go ahead and take a shower while he finishes tidying up, Wakatoshi does exactly that. When Iwaizumi yells at him from inside his stall to wait up, the sound of running water almost drowning out his words—well, Wakatoshi is happy to do it. And when Iwaizumi takes Wakatoshi's bag again for it to join his own over his shoulder, Wakatoshi lets him, like always.

Wakatoshi doesn't say anything through any of it, and that wouldn't be unusual if it weren't for the words that are stuck on the tip of his tongue—words that are hazy, that escape him when he parts his lips and tries to arrange them into one coherent statement. He is… frustrated with himself, because what is it about  _ now _ that makes it so hard for him to speak when in any other situation, he would be throwing words onto others without even thinking about it?

Even when he sees his bus approaching the stop. Even when, on any other night, he'd be turning to Iwaizumi and saying goodbye. Even then, Wakatoshi freezes, and he stays rooted to the spot until his bus closes its doors and drives away.

He doesn't quite know what he feels as he watches it get further and further away from him.

“I missed my bus,” he says, and maybe because it's such a simple fact that it rolls off his tongue so easily.

“Huh?” Wakatoshi turns to Iwaizumi, and is met with the sight of his nape. He's looking far off at the curve of the road, just like Wakatoshi was doing. He says, “That wasn't our bus.”

“Uh. It was,” Wakatoshi says. “It was my bus. Back to the hotel.”

Now, Iwaizumi turns to face him. Wakatoshi takes in his furrowed eyebrows, his pressed lips, his scrunched nose—and wonders if he should step away or closer to Iwaizumi.

“You don't want to hang out, then?”

Wakatoshi blinks. “Is that an option?” 

And Wakatoshi is aware enough to recognize the relief that floods Iwaizumi's face, because he feels it too.

“Yeah, man,” Iwaizumi says, and his lips spread into a smile that Wakatoshi can't help but return, even if his is small, still a little unsure. Wobbly is how Satori describes it, and Wakatoshi can't really argue against it.

But Iwaizumi doesn't mention it, only smiles back, even wider, until his eyes crinkle and his teeth show.

When Iwaizumi grabs his hand, later, to lead him into their bus, Wakatoshi lets him. The bus is understandably packed for a summer night, so they have to stand, pressed against each other. Iwaizumi doesn't let go of Wakatoshi, and Wakatoshi tries not to think too much about it.

They get off the bus twenty minutes later, and Wakatoshi finally finds out that Iwaizumi has brought him to the beach. There are brightly colored stalls clustered around the entrance, tall streetlamps with yellowish light lining the length of the shore. There are a couple of people that Wakatoshi sees walking around—couples, mostly. He wonders if that's how he and Iwaizumi will look to strangers as well. And he finds that he doesn't know what to do with the thought of it.

“How do you feel about ice cream?” Iwaizumi asks. He's taking off his shoes and his socks until he's barefoot, and Wakatoshi follows suit.

“I like it,” he says, and Iwaizumi grins at him before linking their arms together. Their shoes dangle in between them as Iwaizumi leads him to one of the stalls.

Wakatoshi's feet sink into the fine sand underneath him as they wait for their orders—mint chocolate for Iwaizumi and vanilla for him. He remembers one summer spent with Satori's family—a rarity for him, but volleyball was promised, so his family let him go. He remembers melted ice cream running down his arm, remembers Satori's hand curling around his elbow as they run towards a flock of birds, remembers water splashing onto the shore, depositing sand in between his toes. It's a pleasant memory, and Wakatoshi is thankful for it.

“How do you feel about tomorrow?” Iwaizumi asks.

Wakatoshi turns to him, but he's too close. All Wakatoshi can see is the crown of his head and yellow light highlighting the bridge of his nose.

“I don't know,” Wakatoshi says. He feels the way that he always feels—like he knows he should be nervous, but he isn't. He used to think it was his confidence overwhelming his nerves, but these days, he isn't so sure. He does know one thing, though. “I want us to win.”

Iwaizumi tilts his head, and Wakatoshi feels the barely-there press of Iwaizumi's hair against his shoulder even through the material of his shirt. 

“Yeah, I want you to win too.”

It's an obvious thing. Of course Iwaizumi would want Japan to win. And yet—and yet the feeling of combined pride and happiness that it invokes in Wakatoshi is almost unbearable in its strangeness and intensity.

They get their ice creams. Wakatoshi is quiet as Iwaizumi leads them to the beach, and he is quiet as they start to walk along the shore. The sand twinkles under the streetlamps, and Iwaizumi's face is shrouded in Wakatoshi's shadow.

“Eat your ice cream,” Iwaizumi says, and only then does Wakatoshi notice that his ice cream is starting to melt.

He takes a big bite off the top and winces at its coldness. He hesitates, and then, “Why have you been helping me?”

Iwaizumi glances at him, and Wakatoshi is almost grateful that he looks away just as quickly.

“Because you're my friend,” Iwaizumi says. He's said it before, and Wakatoshi has said it back, but—

“Why am I your friend?”

Maybe on paper it doesn't sound so ridiculous. They've known each other since middle school, and even if they were on opposite sides of the court, nothing beats familiarity in a foreign place.

But Wakatoshi knows now what it feels like to have only his pride to cling onto. He knows how it hurts.

“Because I like you,” Iwaizumi says. Wakatoshi wants to—to  _ see  _ him, to see the look in his eyes as he speaks because Iwaizumi is always so amazingly emotional and every expression of his feels like an entire lesson in and of itself. But Wakatoshi doesn't want to interrupt him, so he just listens and forces himself to be content with it.

“I like you  _ now _ because you're nice and you let me help. And because you're not as bad as I thought you were.” Iwaizumi shrugs, and this time he turns to smile at Wakatoshi. His smile looks like it hurts. “Like I said, I've lost to you so many times that I want to help you prove to them that you're good, you know?” 

Wakatoshi doesn't know why he is as lucky as he is. What were the chances that he would meet Iwaizumi outside of UC Irvine months ago? That Iwaizumi would be looking for his dad? That Iwaizumi would suggest they get some coffee, that he'd so easily suggest a video for Wakatoshi to watch? That it would continue until today, with them standing side by side, arm in arm.

“Thank you,” he says, and laments that he will probably never be able to show Iwaizumi just how much he means it. “And sorry.”

“Sorry for beating us again and again?”

Wakatoshi shakes his head. “For being an asshole about it.”

“Never thought I'd hear that,” Iwaizumi says, but he's grinning, and it gives Wakatoshi hope that he really is forgiven. “Thanks, though.”

Wakatoshi nods, and Iwaizumi pulls himself closer until Wakatoshi feels Iwaizumi's arm digging slightly into his side, until he feels their thighs brushing together as they walk. He focuses on his ice cream, which has melted enough that Wakatoshi is able to eat what's left of it in two bites without wincing.

They part to rinse their sticky hands off in the water, but Iwaizumi links their arms together after, and they continue walking along the shore. There's the sound of waves gently lapping at the shore, the hiss and crackle of a campfire, the sound of people talking around him, unintelligible when they reach his ears. But there is also the faint sound of Iwaizumi breathing beside him, and that is what Wakatoshi finds himself focusing on. The same way that he finds himself focusing on Iwaizumi's warmth, on the way Iwaizumi looks under the moonlight whenever Wakatoshi can bear to glance at him. He knows, even now, that he will miss Iwaizumi later, and he doesn't know why that is.

“Hey, look.”

Iwaizumi is tugging at him, his free arm held up as he gestures at something that Wakatoshi has to force himself to look towards. It's another stall, but this time, there are jerseys hanging on a rack. Wakatoshi recognizes some of them—mostly California-based teams, but he also sees an entire section of World League volleyball jerseys, including Japan's.

“What—” 

“I'm gonna buy one. To support you, you know,” Iwaizumi says.

Wakatoshi ignores the way his ears start to feel hot and resists when Iwaizumi tries to pull him towards the stall.

“But it's probably not authentic.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and I'm a college student living on my meager scholarship allowance. I can't afford a real jersey, man, or I would've bought one weeks ago.”

“Iwaizumi,” Wakatoshi says. He thinks he finally understands what Satori means when he says that some people can be so smart and so dumb at the same time. “I'm on the team. I can give you one.”

“Oh.” And there's Iwaizumi's grin again, back in full force. “Thanks, Ushijima.”

Wakatoshi nods. He carefully does not think about the way his cheeks flush, nor the dawning realization that he's been avoiding thinking about quite a lot of things recently.

He has a game to win tomorrow, and that is all that should matter for now.

  
  


_ Iwaizumi Hajime sent a photo _ .

**Hajime** : On my way to the game!!

**Hajime** : I don't know if you're going to see this but good luck! 

**Hajime** : If you don't see this then I'll just make sure you can hear me from the stands haha

  
  


Japan loses 2-3 against Slovenia. It's a hard-fought match and they get so,  _ so  _ close to winning it, but—but they lost. Wakatoshi is proud of them for getting this far; of course he is. The media talked their team up until they didn't, until all they would write about was how disappointing Japan's stats were. But their team reached the semifinals even though no one expected them to survive even the preliminaries. 

And Wakatoshi knows that he did his very best, that his teammates did too. He knows that they've all proved themselves enough, knows that he did too. Maybe that's why he feels fine. Even at the end of the game, when he had to watch the ball hit the ground, unable to do anything about it, he felt fine. Even when deafening cheers erupted around him as the buzzer rang throughout the arena, he felt fine. Even when he had to face the other team to shake their hands, when he had to face their wide grins and their shameless delight, he felt fine. 

He doesn't cry. It's rare for him to cry, and even rarer for him to do it in public. And he feels  _ fine _ , so he has no reason to anyway. He doesn't cry as his team retreats to the locker room. He doesn't cry when their coach tries to rally them, to comfort them. And he doesn't cry in the shower, even though he knows some of his teammates do just that judging by their puffy, red eyes when they come out later.

He knows it's okay to cry. He doesn't look down on it. But the thing is—he hasn't cried in so long. He used to think that it was because he was always the ace, always some type of leader, someone to look up to, someone who needed to be strong. If he cried, that meant he could be hurt, but being the ace meant that no one should be able to break him down or hurt him.

He knows that it's okay, that it's a healthy way to let go of feelings, of frustration and hurt and heartache. But Wakatoshi feels nothing but fine, so he doesn't cry.

He wonders, as he looks around at his teammates, so obvious in their heartbreak and dejection, if he's broken somehow. Defective. If wanting to be so strong has made him less human. It's this thought that makes him feel something finally. It makes him sick, makes him want to throw up, makes him itch to get away, but at least he feels  _ something _ .

Wakatoshi picks up his phone and texts Iwaizumi with shaking fingers. It feels much too long before he receives a reply, but when he does receive it, he isn't disappointed. He tells a teammate that he's staying over with a friend, and then he books it.

He meets Iwaizumi a couple of blocks away, and he feels something settle inside him at the sight of him.

“Hey, you okay?” 

Wakatoshi shakes his head. He watches Iwaizumi's features settle into a grimace and lets him assume the reason why.

“Okay. That's okay,” Iwaizumi says. He reaches out with one hand, and Wakatoshi reaches right back, gravitating towards him like a moon to its world. Iwaizumi's hand in his is familiar, and his warmth more so. “Do you want to go back to my dorm now? Is there anything else you wanna do before that?”

“Dorm,” Wakatoshi says.

Iwaizumi squeezes his hand, nods. “Okay.”

They get a cab to Iwazumi's dorm. Iwaizumi holds his hand the entire time, and Wakatoshi focuses on it. Focuses on Iwaizumi's words, Iwaizumi's voice as he chatters away. Wakatoshi knows what he's doing. Iwaizumi is trying to distract him, and he lets it happen, lets Iwaizumi's words wash over him, because now that he's had time to stew, he recognizes that he isn't defective. Or maybe not as much as he thought.

Because he does get hurt still. He does cry. He remembers crying after the first time his team lost nationals. He remembers crying when Shiratorizawa lost to Karasuno his last year of high school. It happened much, much later than the moment they lost, but it happened.

It could happen now too, and that scares him.

Wakatoshi presses himself closer to Iwaizumi and tries not to think about it. The ride to Iwaizumi's dorm feels much too long for how long it actually lasts. Wakatoshi misses the hollowness he felt before, misses it because this overwhelming dread is awful and suffocating, and the only thing that assuages it is the feeling of Iwaizumi's hand closed around his, hanging onto him just as much as Wakatoshi is to him.

Wakatoshi doesn't notice how his vision has gone hazy, blurred by unshed tears, until he's stepping out of the car. His surroundings are a blur of green and gray, and he barely hears anything over the rush of blood in his ears. He takes a step and stumbles, but Iwaizumi is there to steady him.

And then there's an arm around his shoulders, a hand curling against his cheek, a voice close to his ear. He can't—can't focus on the words, but it's _ Iwaizumi _ . It's Iwaizumi, so he nods and he holds on tight, and when Iwaizumi starts to push him along, he follows to the best of his ability. 

He only realizes that they're finally inside Iwaizumi's room when Iwaizumi hugs him. Iwaizumi is warm and  _ real _ and—and he doesn't  _ need _ to do this, isn't obligated to hug Wakatoshi, just like he wasn't obligated to let Wakatoshi sleep over in his room because his teammates were too much for him to face, and his dad would have been so much worse.

Wakatoshi rarely cries, but he does now, and he remembers how much he hates it. Hates being so overwhelmed that he's barely aware of anything except the thoughts running around in his brain. Hates that he wants to be happy about getting so far into the competition and getting so far with his new arm swing, but all he can think about is that they  _ lost _ . They lost and it's not entirely his fault but part of it kind of is because they expected so much from him but he couldn't deliver. He cries and he hates himself, but—

But Iwaizumi is here, holding him. And maybe that means something. That Wakatoshi is worthy of everything that Iwaizumi gives him maybe, but it's hard to believe it, hard to prove it to himself. But maybe it doesn’t matter if he deserves it, or if he believes that he does, because Iwaizumi is  _ here _ and Wakatoshi is hardly going to push him away.

Iwaizumi has always been kind, and he somehow had it in himself to reach out to Wakatoshi, who brushed him aside, and tormented his best friend for years. Wakatoshi isn't special, isn't particularly  _ good _ , but he has always been lucky. And now he's lucky enough that he's fooled Iwaizumi into caring about him more than anyone should.

Maybe it's that thought that sobers him, that finally exhausts his tears until all that is left is him, hunched in on himself, eyes stinging and cheeks wet even where they're pressed against Iwaizumi's neck.

He doesn't look at Iwaizumi even when he pulls away, just focuses on the line of Iwaizumi's neck, stained with his tears. Wakatoshi tries to wipe it away with his hand, but manages to spread it over Iwaizumi's skin even more.

Then there's a hand around his wrist. Wakatoshi freezes.

“What do you need?” Iwaizumi asks, and Wakatoshi thinks it should make him want to cry all over again, but he has nothing left in him to do it.

“I don't know,” he says. “Tell me—” 

Wakatoshi cuts himself off. He doesn't know what he was going to say. He had a wisp of a thought but it's gone and he doesn't have the energy to force it back out.

“Tell you what?” Iwaizumi asks.

Wakatoshi purses his lips. He tries to think, but— “Nothing.” 

Iwaizumi slips his hand into Wakatoshi's until their fingers are twined together.

“Wakatoshi,” he says, and that is enough for Wakatoshi to look up at him, eyes wide. “For what it's worth, I'm proud of you. You've improved so much these past few months, and you did so much for the team. You know that, right?”

Wakatoshi feels his throat closing up, but he powers through it, says, “I know, but it wasn't enough.”

“Of course it's enough.”

The way Iwaizumi is looking at him—like he's something precious, like he just wants Wakatoshi to  _ understand _ —it's too much, but Wakatoshi can't look away.

“We didn't get into finals,” Wakatoshi says. He watches Iwaizumi's expression harden, just a little bit. It's in the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes lose a little of their shine.

“We never got into nationals. Would you say that I never did enough? That Oikawa didn't do enough? That I couldn't be proud of him anyway?”

Wakatoshi shakes his head. 

“Then I can be proud of you,” Iwaizumi says, and Wakatoshi won't contest that.

“Okay,” he says, because he can understand it, and it's—it's  _ nice  _ to hear. Maybe tomorrow, he'll be able to appreciate it more. But tonight, he's aching, he's hurting, and it's all too much. He leans forward, presses his forehead against Iwaizumi's shoulder. “I'm tired.”

There's a hand curling around his nape, nails scratching gently at his neck.

“Alright,” Iwaizumi says. “Let's go to sleep.”

Wakatoshi already knows that he's tired, but he doesn't think he realizes just how much until he's lying in Iwaizumi's bed, his cheek pressed into Iwaizumi's pillow and his body sinking into the foam. He feels boneless and heavy at the same time. He feels like he could sink to the bottom of the ocean and sleep there forever.

But then the bottom of the ocean might be too cold. This bed is too cold too, but Iwaizumi's fingers are warm where they brush against his scalp.

When Iwaizumi tries to walk away, Wakatoshi is quick enough to catch him.

“Do you want me to stay?” Iwaizumi asks, and it's so easy to nod, so easy to move over. So easy to press himself against Iwaizumi, to wrap an arm around Iwaizumi's waist and keep him close.

Wakatoshi realizes as Iwaizumi hugs him back that he will miss this when he's gone. Realizes that he wants more. More of this. More of Iwaizumi's kindness, and his attention, and his concern. More of Iwaizumi, whatever that entails.

He doesn't know what that means for him, but he doesn't know a lot of things. He'll figure it out tomorrow. Just like he'll figure out what he's going to do now that Worlds is done, at least for his team.

Right now, Iwaizumi is warm. Now, he's wrapped around Wakatoshi, and Wakatoshi falls asleep to the sound of his breathing.

  
  


**Wakatoshi** : Thank you, Hajime.

  
  


**_Incoming call from Iwaizumi Hajime:_ **

“Hello?” 

_ “Wakatoshi, did you have anything to do with this?”  _

“Uh. With what?”

_ “I got an email from your dad about helping out with the team. Did you tell him to—”  _

“Congratulations, Hajime.” 

_ “Wakatoshi.” _

“He must be trying something this season. He asked me to help too.”

_ “You're staying?”  _

“Until August.”

_ “Oh. See you at practice, then.” _

“See you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on [twt](https://twitter.com/singeiji)!!! hopefully ch2 won't take long aaa


	2. one and all, a place for us to fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> covers from the end of worlds up to ushi going back to japan :)
> 
> thank u again ms maam [completist](https://twitter.com/completist_) for helping me edit this dshdsj it was rough but!!!! here's part 2!!

Wakatoshi moves into his dad's apartment after Worlds. It's a one-bedroom apartment fit for a single, divorced man who coaches for a living. There are books on volleyball and training lining a shelf underneath the television, framed photos of his dad from his Shiratorizawa days and his V.League days hanging on the walls. The area in front of the television where the coffee table used to be has been cleared out to make space for an air mattress that they don't have yet.

The kitchen looks lived in, which isn't much of a surprise; Dad has cooked for him before, after all. He was much younger then, barely out of middle school. It was the first time he met his dad again after the divorce.

One night during that trip to California, he got to sleep in his dad's room. He must have been too tired from everything they did during the day because he ended up falling asleep before dinner, and he woke up the next day in his dad's bed. He still remembers it vividly—the smell of his dad's shampoo on the sheets, the way the sunlight streamed into the room through the half-opened window, the sticky feeling of a summer morning despite the fan humming audibly in the corner of the room. 

Wakatoshi remembers that morning in his dad's apartment, turning his head to look for a clock, but finding a picture of him instead. Barely recognizable, with sunlight reflecting off the glass, but he knows the shape of his own face, the slant of his own mouth. He doesn't remember the picture being taken, but he recognizes himself, smiling as he holds a volleyball with both his little hands.

He wonders if his dad still has it on his nightstand. If it still glows under the harsh summer sun. 

It's summer now, too. His dad has taken the electric fan usually placed in the kitchen and set it up next to the television, ready for Wakatoshi's use.

Wakatoshi sets down his bags next to it, and he stands there, unsure of what to do. There has been a lot of that, recently—uncertainty, that is.

“Son?”

Wakatoshi turns to where his dad has been clattering around in the kitchen, and finds him leaning against the counter, the refrigerator held open beside him.

“Do you need anything?”

Wakatoshi feels frozen to the spot. He wonders if he should move, or if he still can. He tries to flex his right hand and succeeds.

Still, his tongue feels heavy when he replies, “No.”

“What about some water?” Dad asks.

Wakatoshi wonders if Dad will list everything he has in the refrigerator until he finds something to give him. He remembers going into a shoe store when he was a kid, remembers getting overwhelmed at the sight of so many shoes to choose from. He remembers stepping closer to his dad and holding onto his hand, and being comforted by just that.

Dad let him hide behind the counter as he picked out shoes for him to try, and then he gave Wakatoshi one pair of shoes at a time until Wakatoshi finally found his first pair of sneakers just for volleyball.

“Okay,” he says. “Thank you.”

Wakatoshi watches as his dad pours him a glass of water. Watches his dad's hand shake as he holds up the pitcher full of water, just enough that Wakatoshi can see it from where he's standing.

Dad is so old now. Older than he is in Wakatoshi's mind—perpetually thirty-five, always so tall and broad, someone to look up to. Wakatoshi still looks up to him now, still remains thankful that he's his dad, but he's visibly older, visibly different.

Wakatoshi looks at the wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead, and sees all the years they spent apart, all the years that they missed in each other's lives. Of course they called each other, and Dad watched all his televised games in middle school and high school, but Wakatoshi can't help but wonder sometimes, what would have happened if his dad hadn't left.

It's pointless to think about it; Wakatoshi knows that. Still, sometimes, he can't help it. Sometimes, when the space between them seems too wide, too terrifying to cross. When Wakatoshi is reminded that his inability to tell what's going on in other people's heads also extends to his dad. 

Dad is the one who crosses the space between them. Dad hands him the glass, and Wakatoshi's hand shakes even when he has it in his grip. He doesn't drink, and his dad doesn't turn and walk away like he expects. 

“Listen, Wakatoshi,” his dad says. Wakatoshi's grip around the glass tightens. “I just want you to know that I'm proud of you, son. You did very well in Worlds.”

That isn't what Wakatoshi expected. He—he hoped for it, of course. But hearing it now, he thinks he really did need it. The reassurance, the reminder that he's okay, that he did enough to be proud of. 

Wakatoshi breathes out.

“Thank you,” he says, and he watches his dad smile at him, wide and overwhelming.

He looks at his dad now and wonders how he could have ever thought that his dad was ten feet tall. He's barely six-feet, and Wakatoshi can't really hide behind him anymore. But even so, there's this growing need in his beating heart to reach out and ask for comfort.

“Can I hug you?” Wakatoshi asks. 

Dad doesn't miss a beat, says, “Come here.”

Wakatoshi steps into arms that barely encircle him, and he feels like he's a child all over again. It fills him with warmth. 

  
  


**Wakatoshi:** Help me buy an air mattress?

**Hajime:** Sure. Wanna get lunch too?

**Wakatoshi:** Okay. I'll pick you up.

  
  


Hajime is fidgeting. He's worrying at the hem of his shirt, and he's bouncing one foot against the floor at too rapid a pace to be anything but frantic. Wakatoshi is reminded of Goshiki at his first game, unable to sit still on the bus on the way to the venue.

Wakatoshi doesn't really understand why. Hajime has met his dad, and he's met the team too in the short moments after the team's practice ended and Wakatoshi's began. Wakatoshi doesn't understand, so he reaches out to still Hajime's hand and asks.

And Hajime sighs in response, shifts closer until their shoulders touch.

“When Utsui asked me to come, I thought I was just going to watch, you know?” he says. “I didn't think he was going to have me play.”

Wakatoshi wasn't expecting it either, really, but it does make sense. He and Hajime are fresh meat for the team to sink their claws into. It won't be as good as a practice match against another team, but it's better than the same old matches that they have within themselves. Not that Wakatoshi and Hajime won't be tough competition. Wakatoshi is a Worlds-level player after all, even if he isn't quite one of the best yet, and Hajime has shown himself to be capable of keeping up with him.

“You'll do fine,” Wakatoshi says.

A beat, and then, “Thanks.” Hajime does not look at him.

Wakatoshi may be at a loss most times when it comes to reading people outside of the court, but Hajime is amazingly easy to read. This is… unfamiliar, yes. Wakatoshi has seen his anger, his concern, his excitement, but he hasn't seen this buzzing disquiet, this grim disposition. Still, he _sees_ it. And still, he wants to do something about it, to help Hajime out of it.

“Hajime.” He tightens his hold around Hajime's hand, and he's rewarded with Hajime looking up at him. There's a crease between his eyebrows that Wakatoshi wants to smooth until it goes away, but he focuses on his words instead. “You're strong. They'll see it.”

Somehow, the crease deepens, and Wakatoshi thinks he's made things worse until Hajime smiles. It unfurls slowly, carefully, and Wakatoshi watches the entire time.

“You really mean it, don't you?” Wakatoshi nods, and Hajime’s smile widens. “Thank you. It means a lot.”

Something sparks inside him, something that burns, that makes his hand feel too hot. He lets go of Hajime, flexes his hand, curls and uncurls it, and still, the sensation doesn’t go away. Even later, when he’s spiking Iwaizumi’s improving tosses across the court, his hand feels much too hot.

It disappears later, as he says goodbye to Hajime. Wakatoshi doesn’t know what it means, but he does know that it means _something._

And whatever that _something_ is—it scares him, because he knows that if he had to do it all over again, he would still want to hold Hajime’s hand anyway.

  
  


**_Outgoing call to Iwaizumi Hajime_ ** **:**

_“Hello?”_

“Hajime?” 

_“... Wakatoshi. It’s so early. What the hell.”_

“Do you want to go jogging with me?”

_“Ugh. Okay, I'm getting up.”_

“See you soon.”

It used to be easier. Lose one game, lose one competition, and the next one won't be far off. But now, Wakatoshi is teamless and aimless, and sometimes it feels like he exists for nothing. There's no next game, no next competition, no team to fall back onto. He feels like he's in the middle of the ocean, and everywhere he looks, it's just blue—stretching out, endless. He feels like he's struggling to keep himself afloat because the water is pressing down on him and it's getting harder and harder to breathe.

For once in his life, he doesn't know what to do. Doesn’t know what exactly is next for him. Sure, he knows that he wants to keep playing volleyball professionally. To keep growing and improving until they can call him a monster on the court again. But the vision in his head is intangible; it escapes him when he tries to reach for it, and dissolves when he attempts to touch it.

Practice with Dad’s team helps a little. Volleyball is volleyball, and volleyball will always be a familiar comfort. But he and Hajime are only there thrice a week, and when Wakatoshi isn’t at practice, he feels very much out of his depth again. It feels like he can’t move or think or breathe correctly, like everything in the world is wrong. He idles away, aching because he misses the court, misses the feeling of a volleyball in his hand, the sound of shoes squeaking against the floor, the taste of copper in his mouth when he gets too tense during a set.

It’s all too much, and that picking up his phone and calling Hajime is the first thing he thinks of to alleviate the ache in his chest is less odd than Wakatoshi expects. Maybe months ago, it would have been. But now… now, he knows that Hajime is a friend. That Hajime is someone he can lean on, someone who would hold him if he cried, and who has done exactly that.

Wakatoshi calls and Hajime answers, and it feels like another piece of a puzzle has fallen into place.

And then Wakatoshi sees Hajime again, walking out of his dormitory building dressed in the jersey that Wakatoshi gave him, and it feels like he can’t breathe. He almost doesn’t notice the bags under Hajime’s eyes, the exhaustion in the curve of his shoulders, but the morning light hits Hajime, and Wakatoshi sees it all.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Wakatoshi says.

He reaches out, brushes his thumb gently against the bruised skin under his eyes. Hajime flinches, but then his hand closes around Wakatoshi’s, keeping it in place.

“I was up late talking to Tooru,” he says.

“Oh.” There’s a faint sinking feeling in his stomach. Wakatoshi ignores it the same way he ignores the too quick beating of his heart. “How is he?”

Hajime sighs. “Fine. He just got my birthday gift, so he was really happy about it. He's been whining about it being late for _weeks_.”

“That’s good,” Wakatoshi says. Well, he thinks it's supposed to be good, but also he finds that he can't really think very well right now. His palm is still flush against Hajime's skin. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

Hajime's eyebrows furrow, so it must have been the wrong question to ask. Wakatoshi wonders if Oikawa would have made the same mistake, but he doubts it.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll take a nap later or something,” Hajime says, and Wakatoshi has no choice but to believe him because then he's pulling away. 

Wakatoshi's hand falls back to his side.

“Come on.”

Hajime turns and starts a slow jog. Wakatoshi is left to catch up to him, but even when he does, he feels like he's struggling to keep up with Hajime—struggling to minimize the space between them, to keep from falling behind. It isn't that Hajime's pace is too quick for him, but there's this heaviness in his chest that weighs him down, that makes his breaths come quicker and his throat feel like it's closing up.

By the time they stop for a break, Wakatoshi is exhausted. He plants his hands on his knees and catches his breath. He can't bring himself to look at Hajime.

“You okay?” 

Wakatoshi nods, and it is the truth until it isn't. Until he recognizes the feeling for what it is, remembers feeling the same way in high school when he would look across the court and see Hajime standing next to Oikawa. It's ugly and awful and it makes him want to throw up, so he squeezes his eyes shut and wills it away.

But even when it's gone, even when Wakatoshi opens his eyes again and the world reappears around him—even then, it feels like something has changed. It feels like his surroundings are saturated in color, sharply defined in their details. The cracks in the concrete sidewalk, the green of the leaves, the sweat that has pooled in Hajime's collarbone.

“You good to run again? Or do you wanna stop?” Hajime asks.

Wakatoshi opens his mouth to answer, but there are no words waiting for him. He wants to answer, but it feels like a bubble has burst, and it has left him speechless. Left him with only bile in his throat, but at least he can work with that.

“I don't feel well,” he says, and hopes that Hajime won't ask why.

He doesn't.

“Okay. Stay here. I'll get us some water, alright?” he says, and Wakatoshi—

Wakatoshi reaches out and takes Hajime's hand in his.

“I'll come with you,” he says, and it makes him even sicker, how much he wants to keep close to Hajime. Makes him sick because he wants it _so much._

He wonders if Hajime sees it, how much Wakatoshi has come to rely on him. Wonders what he thinks of it, if he has noticed it.

Hajime's gripping his hand as tightly as Wakatoshi is though, and it's enough for the wild thing in Wakatoshi's chest to settle, just a little bit. 

“If you're sure,” Hajime says, and Wakatoshi nods. This is the surest he's been about anything recently.

Wakatoshi doesn't let go of Hajime as they walk back to Hajime's dorm, and Hajime doesn't pull away either. Even when they're already in Hajime's dorm, Wakatoshi doesn't quite want to let go, but Hajime lets him tag along as he gets water for them to drink from the fountain.

But then they have to shower, so Wakatoshi rushes through it and tries to stay still as he waits for Hajime to finish his shower. He sits on Hajime's bed, dressed in Hajime's clothes—in shorts that barely reach mid-thigh when he's sitting down and a UC Irvine shirt that's a bit too small across his shoulders. He isn't sure if it helps, knowing he's in Hajime's space. Knowing that the last time he was here, Hajime held him when he cried.

It helps a little, he thinks, but then it also reminds him that in a month's time, he won't have this. That he won't have Hajime in reach, won't be able to call Hajime and see him and hold him just as easily. And he's gotten so used to being with Hajime that he can't imagine what it would feel like to live without him. Because somehow, Hajime has become important to him. Important like volleyball, like his dad's approval. 

Wakatoshi buries his fingers in Hajime's sheets, wondering if it'll be anything like when his dad left. He remembers thinking for too long a time that Dad would come back and live with them again. Remembers continuing to include Dad in all his drawings of his family, even though he was miles away already. Remembers playing volleyball, hoping that maybe, if he became good enough at it, then Dad would return. He never really stopped, he thinks. A part of him still hopes that his dad will come back to Japan with him, but it's vastly overwhelmed by the part of him happy enough just knowing that Dad watches his games. That Dad thinks he's strong. That Dad is _proud_ of him.

Missing Hajime should be like missing his dad, or missing Satori, or missing his teammates. It should be fine. Wakatoshi should be able to endure it.

But even now, physically separated from Hajime by a few meters, Wakatoshi already misses him.

Hajime enters the room dressed in fresh clothes and with a towel draped over his head, and seeing him helps Wakatoshi relax a little bit. Just enough that he recognizes how tense his shoulders are, how tightly he has fisted his hands into Hajime's sheets.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Hajime says, and of course. Hajime always gets straight to the point. Wakatoshi likes that about him, but he doesn't like having to think about the answers to his questions. Because he doesn't like it when his thoughts are too quick for him, when he feels like the ground is shifting beneath him but he has no idea why, no idea how to make the world stay still so he can find his balance again.

But the world is still now, with Iwaizumi in his reach. It always is when Hajime's with him. Every moment with him feels like it's frozen in time, like it's meant to go on forever. In reality, it isn't what happens. In reality, time passes, even if Wakatoshi doesn't want it to.

In reality, the date of his flight back to Japan is getting closer and closer, and a part of Wakatoshi dreads it. 

“I don't want to leave,” he says. The words come out of him in a rush. Truth escaping from the depths of his consciousness.

Hajime's eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean? You don't want to leave California?”

Wakatoshi hesitates for a moment. He doesn't think he has the right words, but that's fine. He's never been good at finding them anyway. The entirety of his thoughts and feelings is confusing enough without him having to compress it into something as compact as a couple of sentences.

But he'll try. He tries.

“What I have here is… good. I have Dad and I have you,” he says. “But I know that going back to Japan and playing volleyball there is how I want to grow.”

And maybe that's too simple a way to say it, but Wakatoshi nods to himself, satisfied. He looks up at Hajime, who crosses the space between them. 

Hajime takes a seat beside him. Covers Wakatoshi's hand with both of his and tugs gently until it unfurls. Hajime brushes his thumb against Wakatoshi's knuckles, and Wakatoshi wonders what he sees. Wonders why he's staring so intently at their joined hands.

Hajime bends down, presses his forehead against the back of Wakatoshi's hand. He's warm. Wakatoshi wonders if he will always be warm, if he'll stay that way even as Wakatoshi soaks up his warmth. 

“You'll still have us even when we're apart. You know that, right?” Hajime says. The words are muffled, murmured into the space between them.

Wakatoshi knows there's truth in Hajime's words. But he also knows himself.

“I'll still miss you,” Wakatoshi says. 

He feels Hajime's grip tighten around his hand, feels Hajime's eyelashes brush against his skin. And then Hajime is sitting back up, looking right at Wakatoshi. His wet hair leaves droplets of water along Wakatoshi's forearm, pleasantly cool. 

“I'll miss you too,” Hajime says, and Wakatoshi hoped so. He would have liked it, if Hajime would miss him too. Because… well, because then maybe Wakatoshi would be right to hope that this means _something_. That it isn't just Wakatoshi pushing and pushing his way into someone's space. That Hajime actually wants him here, wants to be his friend, wants to keep being his friend. 

“Oh.” 

Wakatoshi looks down at their hands, and suddenly, it isn't enough. He leans forward until he can press his forehead against Hajime's shoulder. His free hand settles against Hajime's elbow.

It isn't enough, and Wakatoshi doesn't understand it. 

Hajime untangles one of his hands from Wakatoshi's and it rests on his shoulder, gripping as if to steady him. “Wakatoshi?” 

“I'll visit,” he promises. “I'll see you when I visit Dad.”

Wakatoshi feels the next breath that Hajime takes, deep and drawn out. It tickles, makes him shiver, just a little bit. 

“Of course. And I'll look forward to it.” Wakatoshi nods. Hajime's grip tightens around his shoulder, and then it relaxes. “Wakatoshi?” 

“Yes?” Wakatoshi says. A moment passes, and another, and another, but Hajime doesn't say anything. Wakatoshi pulls away to look up at him, sees the set of his jaw and the twist of his mouth, and worries. “Hajime? What is it?” 

But Hajime shakes his head, and his hand comes up to curl against the back of Wakatoshi's head. He pushes lightly, until Wakatoshi's forehead is back on his shoulder. 

“Nothing,” Hajime says, and Wakatoshi has no reason not to believe him.

**Wakatoshi:** I just got home.

**Hajime:** That's good. :)

**Hajime:** Want to jog in your neighborhood next time? 

**Wakatoshi:** If you can wake up earlier than me, yes.

  
  


Hajime starts taking notes during practice. Wakatoshi misses him when he sits out of sets, but Hajime seems happy enough typing away on his phone where he's sitting on the bleachers. 

One of Dad's wing spikers needs more practice receiving, so Wakatoshi sends a serve his way during the match. He knows Hajime notices, because the first thing Hajime does when he steps out of the court is to raise an eyebrow at him.

“Did you really have to be so mean with your serve?” 

Wakatoshi shrugs. “If I didn't, he wouldn't learn.”

“Alright, alright,” Hajime says, sighing. “I've been wanting to ask your dad if I can work with him on his defense anyway.”

Wakatoshi hums as he sits down next to Hajime. His skin is sticky with sweat, so he keeps some space between them. Hajime shuffles closer to him anyway, close enough that his arm brushes against Wakatoshi's every once in a while as he taps away on his phone. 

Wakatoshi wonders what he sees when he looks at the court. Wakatoshi looks at the way people move, the ebb and flow of playing on the court. The wide berth given to the ace, players converging towards a ball, spikers scattering around their side of the court, all waiting for the ball to come their way. Wakatoshi watches games itching to go back on the court himself, and he can't imagine it any other way. 

“Hajime.”

Hajime tilts his head towards Wakatoshi, but he keeps his eyes on the match. “Yeah?” 

Wakatoshi hesitates. He leans back against the bleachers, feels the hard edge of the next step digging into his back, and then, “Why didn't you try out for the team? You still seem to like playing, and you're as good as Dad's players.” 

Wakatoshi can see the way Hajime's shoulders tense, almost imperceptible. Any evidence of it disappears as quickly as it comes, and Wakatoshi wonders for a moment if he only imagined it.

“I mean I never really saw myself playing professionally, you know?” Hajime sighs. He puts his phone down on his lap. He still doesn't look at Wakatoshi. “Well, I guess you don't, because you were on the national team.”

“I was,” Wakatoshi agrees. And he's always known that he'd go pro, just like Dad did. 

“I still love volleyball. I still want to play, but I know my limits. Even if I play volleyball on a university-level, I know that I can't play it professionally.” Hajime looks at Wakatoshi over his shoulder, and there's that smile on his face again—the one that looks like it hurts. 

Wakatoshi feels like his breath has been knocked out of him. And he can't do anything but sit there, looking at Hajime and the beautiful, tragic curve of his lips. It hurts to look at it, but Wakatoshi knows it must be nothing compared to what Hajime's feeling.

Hajime drops the smile. He looks back down at his lap. His fingers are digging into his knees; when Wakatoshi reaches out to pull Hajime's hands into his, it leaves pale imprints of Hajime's fingertips on his skin.

“But I was pretty good at biology, you know? And I liked working with our coach back in high school. And I liked working with my teammates to help them find better ways to take care of themselves,” Hajime says. “So learning how to support people who are able to go pro—that's what's important to me right now.”

Wakatoshi forgets sometimes that Hajime was vice-captain. By Oikawa's side in every way that counted. Until he wasn't anymore, at least.

But he will be. The same way that Wakatoshi will build himself back up again, Hajime will too. Wakatoshi hears the resolve in his voice, sees it in the way Hajime works so hard. His tenacity, his perseverance, his quiet strength—they are what make up the foundation of Hajime's whole being, along with his kindness. Wakatoshi doesn't need a long time with him to recognize that. 

“You'll be amazing,” Wakatoshi says. He squeezes Hajime's hands in his. “You're already amazing.”

This time, Hajime's smile is light. It reaches his eyes. It's beautiful. 

“Thank you,” Hajime says, and Wakatoshi can do nothing but smile back. 

  
  


**_Incoming call from an unknown number._ **

  
  


**Hajime:** Hey, wanna get dinner together? 

**Wakatoshi:** My dad is cooking.

**Hajime:** Oh, that's cool. Next time, then.

**Wakatoshi:** He says you can come over. 

**Hajime:** Uh.

**Hajime:** Well, if you're both sure? Okay? 

**Wakatoshi:** Okay. :) Dinner is at 7. 

  
  


Hajime arrives carrying a plastic bag from the convenience store near his dorm. He smiles when Wakatoshi greets him at the door, but Wakatoshi sees his furrowed brow, his too-wide eyes, and he knows that something is up.

“What's wrong?” he asks. 

But Hajime only shakes his head, and he says in a hushed whisper, “Nothing!”

Wakatoshi raises an eyebrow, not quite convinced, but before he can press any further, Dad shouts from the kitchen. 

“Is that Iwaizumi?”

“Ah, yes!” Hajime replies. His eyes widen even more, and his free hand darts out to grab onto Wakatoshi's arm. His grip is tight enough that Wakatoshi worries.

“Are you sure you're alright?” he asks again. 

But instead of answering, Hajime shoots back, “Are you sure it's okay for me to be here?”

Wakatoshi's eyebrows furrow, his lips twisting into a frown. “Yes,” he replies easily, and he doesn't know why Hajime would think otherwise.

He wants to ask further, wants to understand, but Hajime's expression shifts, and the glimmer of resolve in his eyes is the only warning that Wakatoshi gets before Hajime pushes past him into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

“Come on,” Hajime says, and then he's pulling Wakatoshi along with him, and Wakatoshi lets him. The common area comes into view, a little messy with Wakatoshi's things scattered around, and then there's the kitchen, where Dad's still in his apron, setting the table. 

“Good evening, sir,” Hajime greets. He lifts the bag he's carrying. “Uh, I brought Gatorade?” 

“Gatorade!” Dad laughs, but he takes the bag from Hajime anyway. They're almost out of it, and Wakatoshi does remember telling Hajime about it. “Thank you, Iwaizumi, though you didn't have to bring anything.”

“It's the least I could do,” Hajime says. His grip shifts around Wakatoshi's arm as Dad turns around to deposit the bag into the refrigerator. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

Dad looks over his shoulder, grinning. He waves a hand dismissively. “Of course. My son was very disappointed that he couldn't see you, so I figured it was the best thing to do.”

Wakatoshi feels his cheeks warm.

“ _Dad_ ,” he protests, even though it's entirely true. He cannot look at Hajime, not even when Hajime is facing away from him, so he fixes his wide eyes on Dad instead. Dad only smiles at him, of course. 

“Uh. Thank you,” Hajime says. His hand around Wakatoshi's arm is suddenly too warm.

Dad stands up, wiping his hands off on his apron before taking it off as he heads to the table. He hangs it off the back of his chair, then beckons them over.

“Come, sit down. I hope curry's okay with you,” he says.

Wakatoshi and Hajime sit. They eat Dad's curry. Hajime compliments the curry, and then the rice, and then the apartment, and Dad accepts everything with good grace. It's a normal dinner, until it isn't.

“So, Hajime,” Dad says. “How are you holding up, having to study here in America?” 

Hajime takes a while to answer, his mouth still full of food. His face flushes with the effort of chewing. Wakatoshi is worried he'll choke, so he reaches out to curl a hand around Hajime's bicep, but it doesn't seem to help considering Hajime gets only redder. Wakatoshi withdraws his hand.

“Fine, sir,” Hajime says eventually. “It's been a year so I've gotten more used to it.”

Dad nods. “That's good.”

Hajime blinks. “Uh. Yeah,” he says. He moves to take another bite of his food, but then Dad speaks again and he pauses.

“You must miss your family though? Your girlfriend too? Or boyfriend? I know that's tough.”

“I'm single,” Hajime says, and for some reason, it makes Dad smile. “But, yes. My parents call me every week. I miss them very much.”

Wakatoshi doesn't know why his dad is asking Hajime all these questions. It vaguely feels like an interrogation, which doesn't make sense because Wakatoshi knows Hajime was already interviewed for his internship with the team.

And he isn't the best at reading the room; he knows that. Even then, he senses the tension easily enough that it makes him uncomfortable. That he doesn't know why there's tension at all or why Hajime was acting odd makes him only more uncomfortable. 

“I received a call today,” Wakatoshi says, “from the Schweiden Adlers.”

Both his dad and Hajime turn to him at the same time, twin looks of surprise on their faces. Wakatoshi only stares back until something clicks and they both break out into grins.

“Wakatoshi! Congratulations!” 

“That's great news, son.”

Wakatoshi smiles back at them. “They want me to meet them as soon as I return to Japan. And their training camp is a week after that, so if everything works out, they said I can attend that too.” 

He hopes it works out. The Adlers are a middling team at best, but they scrape their way to the playoffs more often than not and Wakatoshi—

Wakatoshi wants to prove himself. And the Adlers as they are now feel like they want the same thing too.

Of course, even if they're interested in him, doesn't mean that it's a sure thing. And with the next season starting soon, they probably won't be the last team trying to recruit him. Maybe.

Still, that they're the one of the first ones to really approach him—it's a good thing, Wakatoshi thinks. He's in a better place now than he was during Worlds, and he thinks he's grown from the experience too, even just a little bit.

He has more room to grow, and that's okay. He wants to.

“I'm excited,” he says, and he means it. Feels it even more intensely than when he was invited to play for the national team after high school.

“I'm happy for you,” Hajime says, and this time Wakatoshi doesn't see anything underneath his words. There's just his own pride, his own excitement, his own feelings reflected back onto him.

When Hajime reaches out, he reaches back.

  
  


**Hajime:** Happy birthday!!!

**Wakatoshi:** Thank you. :)

  
  


Wakatoshi wasn't really expecting to still be in California for his birthday. He thought he'd be back in Miyagi. He thought he'd already be busy trying to decide which team to join. He thought a lot of things, but he is… content with what's happened. He's happy, even, that he has been able to spend more time with Dad and Hajime, that he took the time after Worlds to take a break, to breathe. That he didn't immediately jump into the next thing after—after everything that was Worlds. All the headlines, the pressure, the ever-present feeling of not being enough.

He knows better now. He knows that he loves volleyball. He knows that he still wants to get better. He knows that he has people who will be there for him no matter where he is in his volleyball career.

Like Hajime. Hajime, who met him at a low point but decided to help him instead of mocking him for it. Hajime, who has quickly become one of his closest friends. Hajime, who is… more to Wakatoshi than he has the capacity to comprehend.

And now Hajime wants to take Wakatoshi to an amusement park for his birthday because Dad has banned them from the gym for the day and Wakatoshi's birthday call with all his friends isn't until much later that night. And Hajime seems very excited about it, so Wakatoshi agrees. 

They're in line for all-day passes as soon as the park opens. Above them, clouds hide the morning sun—a rarity during summer, and a welcome one. Still, Wakatoshi keeps his cap on. It's Hajime's anyway, not his. Hajime placed it on his head this morning before hugging him and wishing him a happy birthday. Wakatoshi wants to wear it, whether the sun shines down on them or not. 

They get their tickets and copies of the park map. Hajime wraps a hand around his and pulls him along, asks, “What do you want to do?” 

He's looking at Wakatoshi over his shoulder, his grin wide enough to reach his eyes. Wakatoshi should look at the map and try to figure out an answer to Hajime's question, but he doesn't want to look away from _this_. 

“I don't know,” he says instead. “I've never been to an amusement park before.”

Hajime's eyes widen, his hand squeezing around Wakatoshi for a quick moment. “Really? I used to go every year with my family for Christmas.”

That he might not be able to spend Christmas with his family this year goes unsaid, but Wakatoshi understands anyway. Sees it in the way Hajime shrinks just a little bit. 

Wakatoshi squeezes back. He asks, “What do you like to do with your family?” 

“Ride the rollercoaster,” Hajime answers easily.

This time, Wakatoshi does look at the map. He finds the rollercoaster easily enough, and starts to pull Hajime towards it. 

“Let's go ride the rollercoaster then.” 

Hajime puts up a little resistance though, and Wakatoshi turns back to him, eyebrows raised. 

“Are you sure? It's your birthday. You should choose,” Hajime says. And then he flushes. And then— “Unless you wanna leave and do something else? That's fine too.”

He tries to pull his hand away from Wakatoshi's, but Wakatoshi doesn't let him.

“No. I want to do what you like to do.”

Hajime's lips twist into a frown. “Why?” he asks. 

But Wakatoshi isn't really sure why. He just knows it to be true, and that's why he said it. Doing what Hajime likes… might make Hajime happy. And Wakatoshi likes seeing Hajime happy. He likes seeing Hajime smile, and he likes seeing Hajime laugh. Especially when it doesn't seem like it's forced, like it hurts.

“I think,” Wakatoshi says, “that I'll be happy to see you happy.”

Hajime's face crumples before it smooths out. His lips are carefully pressed into a thin line, his eyes carefully blank. But his nostrils flare and his grip on Wakatoshi is tight.

“That's not really an answer,” he says. And then he sighs. “Or maybe it is.”

Finally, Hajime steps back into Wakatoshi's space. Their hands hang comfortably between them.

“Fine. Let's go. But if you think of something you want to do, tell me, okay?” 

“I will,” Wakatoshi promises. 

Amusement parks can have more than one rollercoaster it turns out. Wakatoshi sticks it out through each one that Hajime drags him to, one hand holding onto the cap on his head and the other onto Hajime beside him. He likes it, he thinks. He likes Hajime's laughter even more. 

Still, it has to be unavoidable—feeling nauseous, that is. He's barely on his feet after the third one in a row, and there's an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that he's having trouble suppressing.

He tugs at Hajime. “Let's take a break?” he says.

Hajime glances at his watch, nods. “Yeah. It's about time for lunch anyway, if you're up to it.” 

Wakatoshi's stomach turns at the mere mention of _lunch_. He frowns. “Not yet.”

“That's okay,” Hajime says easily. “We'll find something else to do.”

And they do. Or Wakatoshi does anyway. He sees a pony from across the cobblestone street and remembers weekends spent at his grandmother's, helping out at the small farm she had cultivated since moving to the countryside. He remembers getting scared of the chickens until his mother finally taught him how to hold one, and he remembers loving his grandmother's horse until he fell off it. He loved the horse still, after that. Visits to his grandmother became infrequent as he grew older, and they stopped entirely when she died.

This pony must be much smaller than his grandmother's horse, and it seems even smaller compared to his memory of that horse looming over him as a child. It's almost as pretty, though. 

“Hajime.”

“Yeah?” Hajime says. He must follow Wakatoshi's gaze, because then— “Oh. You wanna go meet them?” 

Wakatoshi nods. His house back in Miyagi is big enough for a garden, but his mother always did draw the line at animals.

The pony's keeper perks up as they approach. “You want to take a picture with him?” he asks.

Wakatoshi's eyes widen. He turns to Hajime. “Can I?” 

Hajime's smile is small, but Wakatoshi sees the amusement reach his eyes. It's not his first smile today, not even close, and yet Wakatoshi still feels like he could let himself get distracted by it, could lose sense of everything around him just to focus on Hajime's smile, waiting for it to widen into something that's another kind of beautiful.

But it's Hajime who grounds him too.

“Yeah. Give me your phone,” he says, holding out his free hand, palm up. Wakatoshi does as he asks.

When Hajime moves to step away from him though, he forgets to let go. Hajime looks over his shoulder at Wakatoshi, eyebrows furrowed.

“Wakatoshi?”

Wakatoshi looks back, eyes wide, still unwilling to let go. He realizes that he should. It's such a simple thing to let go of Hajime for a short moment, to get his picture taken and then have Hajime back at his side soon after. It's such a simple thing, but Wakatoshi doesn't want to, and it feels like his body doesn't want to listen to reason any more than his brain does.

_Just let go_ , he thinks to himself. _Let go_. 

And then—

“I'll take it for you, if you want,” the keeper offers, and Wakatoshi nods.

Hajime hesitates, his gaze fixed on Wakatoshi, searching, but then he steps back closer to Wakatoshi. But then he turns to the keeper and gives him Wakatoshi's phone, already opened to the camera. 

“That would be great,” he says. “Thank you, sir.”

“You can hug him,” the keeper says. “He's very nice.”

Wakatoshi has to bend down quite a bit and it's more than a little awkward, but the pony _is_ very nice and allows Wakatoshi to hug him. Wakatoshi turns to Hajime, eyes wide, smiling, and finds Hajime smiling back.

“Okay, ready?” the keeper says, and Wakatoshi turns to the camera. He never sees the need to smile for photos, but still he always wonders if he should. He doesn't have to wonder now though. And even more so, when he feels Hajime press up against him, feels Hajime's arms wrap around his waist, Hajime's cheek against his shoulder blade. 

The camera clicks. Wakatoshi lets the pony go, and Hajime steps away to get Wakatoshi's phone back. He keeps one hand on Wakatoshi's waist, and it stays there even after they've left.

They take their time eating lunch, sitting side by side in a booth. They share Hajime's earphones and listen to a podcast Hajime likes, but half the time, Wakatoshi gets distracted by Hajime's reactions, the minute twitches and shifts in his expression, and Wakatoshi feels guilty for it. He'll listen to the podcast again later, and hopes he'll be far enough from Hajime that he won't be as distracted. 

The sun is bright and harsh when they step outside again. The clouds from that morning are gone, and only the brilliant blue sky is left to frame the sun. Wakatoshi is glad for Hajime's cap on his head, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sunlight. 

“Another rollercoaster?” Wakatoshi suggests, though he's unsure. He's pleasantly sated, not quite full, but he isn't an expert on nausea and rollercoasters, not even after riding three of them. 

Hajime shakes his head. “Maybe later. We did just eat.”

Hajime takes out his map, his eyebrows furrowing as he studies it. Then, he grins, says, “I know what we're gonna do.”

And then Hajime takes Wakatoshi's hand and starts to pull him along.

“What are we going to do?” Wakatoshi asks. 

“You'll see.”

They come to a stop at the carousel, and Wakatoshi raises his eyebrows at Hajime.

“Because of the pony,” Hajime explains, and yes, Wakatoshi got that. Wakatoshi opens his mouth to say just that, but then Hajime continues, “And because we need a break from rollercoasters. _And_ because I think it’ll be cute to see you on a fake horse.”

Wakatoshi's mouth clicks shut and his cheeks flush. He tightens his hold on Hajime, pulls him to the end of the line.

There are mostly kids with one of their parents in the line ahead of them, but Wakatoshi sees one or two couples too. He thinks of that day at the beach, walking along the moonlit shore, his arm linked with Hajime's. And now, he looks down at their hands, joined in between them, their fingers laced.

Wakatoshi can't remember what it feels like, not knowing this closeness. He isn't a stranger to physical touch, nor to physical comfort. He likes his dad's easy affection when they do meet, and he liked Satori's casual pats and hugs back in high school. But this is—this feels different. He knows it's different, but he doesn't know what to do about it. 

All he knows is to want, to ache for it, to seek it out. When he's in Japan and Hajime is here in California, he wonders if it will be all he knows still. If Hajime will be all that he knows, if it'll ever be so easy to be close to someone else like it is with him.

Wakatoshi takes their clasped hands and places them on his chest, next to his heart. He wonders if Hajime can feel his heartbeat over everything else around them—the heat of the sun, the dryness in the air, the looping notes of a piano playing as the carousel turns and turns. 

He doesn't get an answer, not quite, but Hajime smiles at him, and it's enough.

They're the first ones to the carousel when they finally reach their turn. Hajime leads him to a horse as high as the pony from earlier, helps him get on it, and then stays where he is, beside it. Beside Wakatoshi. 

He stands there as Wakatoshi gets his bearings, keeping hold of the horse's neck.

“You aren't going to get on a horse too?” 

“No,” Hajime says, “I'll stay with you.”

Wakatoshi nods, holds out his hand.

“What?” Hajime asks, but already, he's reaching out too, taking Wakatoshi's hand. Just as easily as Wakatoshi would take his, if offered. 

“So you won't fall,” Wakatoshi says, and he doesn't say it to be funny, but it makes Hajime smile anyway. It's nice, he thinks. 

“Okay,” Hajime says. “I’ll count on it.”

The carousel starts slow, builds its speed little by little until it plateaus. It's far from quick enough to be uncomfortable, far from quick enough for the world to blur around them, and yet it feels like it is. It feels like Hajime is the only clear thing left in the world, the only one he can look at, and he can't bear to turn away.

That Hajime looks back at him is—

It's _maddening_. It feels like breathing in too much air after having too little. It feels like floating in the middle of the ocean and finally catching a glimpse of land in the distance. It feels like stepping into the eye of a storm and taking comfort in the quiet stillness.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” Wakatoshi says, and he doesn't quite know if he means here in this moment, or here in this park, or here in California. 

Still, Hajime seems to understand. He pulls himself closer to Wakatoshi until his torso brushes against Wakatoshi's thigh, their hands now resting against Wakatoshi's knee. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

It's enough.

  
  


**Hajime:** Hey. You packed? 

**Wakatoshi:** Yes.

**Hajime:** Cool.

**Hajime:** Can I meet you? I’ll come to you.

**Wakatoshi:** Is everything alright? 

**Hajime:** Yes.

**Hajime:** I don't know, actually. I just want to talk to you. 

**Wakatoshi:** Okay, I'll meet you. 

**Hajime:** Thank you.

  
  


It's a cold summer night. Wakatoshi has to come back inside the apartment to put a sweater on over his shirt before going downstairs to meet Hajime. He also grabs a jacket too, just in case, and he is glad for it when he finds Hajime outside, arms wrapped around himself.

Hajime looks up at him, eyes wide. He parts his lips as if to say something, but nothing comes out. Wakatoshi doesn't push. Instead, he steps into Hajime's space so he can place his jacket over Hajime's shoulders.

Wakatoshi doesn't step away after, only hangs onto Hajime's arms through the fabric. And Hajime—

Hajime looks at him like Wakatoshi has broken his heart. Face scrunched up, lower lip trembling, eyes shining under what little light spills out from inside the building. 

“Wakatoshi,” Hajime says, voice shaky. Wakatoshi reaches up, intending to hold him, but then Hajime jerks away. He bumps against the wall beside them, and Wakatoshi's hand is left up in the space between them.

“Thanks,” Hajime says. “For the jacket.”

This time, his voice is steady. 

Wakatoshi's hand drops back to his side. He nods. “You're welcome.”

Hajime looks away, down at their shoes, but Wakatoshi keeps his eyes on Hajime. Hajime worries at his lip, reaching up across his chest to rub at his shoulder, his eyelashes casting shadows on his face as he blinks. 

“Uh. So you're leaving tomorrow.”

“I am.”

Hajime's hand slides down from his shoulder to his elbow. Fabric bunches in his hand. 

“I'll miss you.”

“I know,” Wakatoshi says. “I'll miss you too.”

Hajime looks up at him, and there's something in his expression that makes Wakatoshi _ache._

“Wakatoshi, I—” Hajime cuts himself off, presses his lips into a thin line. He tries again, but, “I—uh.” 

His throat works, his eyebrows furrowing. Wakatoshi knows the feeling of not knowing the right words, but usually, the wrong words are all he has, and so he barrels on anyway. But Hajime has always seemed to have the right words for Wakatoshi. Maybe not effortlessly, maybe not easily, but he had them anyway. And now he's struggling to get his words out.

Wakatoshi reaches out, and this time, Hajime reaches back. He's shaking, but when Wakatoshi's hand curls around his, he is still. Hajime leans forward, just a little bit. Almost imperceptible, if Wakatoshi wasn't doing the same thing. Instinctive. Inevitable. 

_Oh,_ Wakatoshi thinks. _I want to kiss him._

But he doesn't. He shouldn't. Not when there's hesitation so clear in Hajime's expression. Not when he isn't sure Hajime would want it.

“Hajime,” he says. “It's okay.”

Wakatoshi understands. There is a line that he'd be crossing if he were to lean even further into Hajime's space and kiss him. He is… _inexperienced_ in these things, but he is aware enough of them. He knows how much effort it takes. He knows he hardly thought the effort was worth it when he would get confessions from girls he barely knew in high school.

But Hajime is so much more than a stranger or an acquaintance. He is so much more than a friend. He is—

Hajime is strong, and he is kind, and he holds Wakatoshi when he cries. His hand is always warm, and his smile always makes Wakatoshi want to smile back, just to have his own brilliance reflected back at him.

But Wakatoshi also knows that what they have now won't be what they'll have after he leaves tomorrow. That what's so easy now might not be as easy when they're miles apart. He wants to believe otherwise, but he knows how easy it is to forget, to let something die.

He remembers being so scared of forgetting his dad, of forgetting what he looked like, or what his voice sounded like. But volleyball helped. It helps, even now. Maybe it will help with Hajime too, but there's no assurance that it will. He understands the hesitation. He _does._

But Hajime's eyes narrow and his jaw sets. The hesitation morphs into something else, something wild.

“It's not okay,” he says. He laces their fingers together, reaches up with his free hand to settle it against Wakatoshi's cheek. Wakatoshi leans into Hajime's touch, and Hajime's lips curl into something that's almost a smile. 

Hajime brushes his thumb against Wakatoshi's skin. Gently, carefully. He says, “I don't want to let this slip away from me. I need to say this.”

“You don't need to. I think—” Wakatoshi pauses, eyebrows furrowing. He wonders, for a moment, if he's sure, but the answer comes easily to him. Just as easily as he settles his free hand against Hajime's waist. He says, “I think I know.”

Hajime shakes his head.

“I want to say it,” he says. And then, “I want to be with you.”

It knocks the breath out of Wakatoshi. _I want to be with you too,_ he thinks. _Always, as long as you'll allow me to._ He wants to say as much, but Hajime isn't done. 

“I want to be _there_ for you. I want to support you.” Hajime's hand slides from Wakatoshi's cheek down to his neck, and then to his nape. Hajime scrunches his nose, but the curve of his lips finally turns into a smile. “And I want to hug you and hold your hand, and I want to make you smile. _All the time._ ”

Wakatoshi smiles back, says, “I know the feeling.”

Hajime leans forward and into Wakatoshi's space, pressing their foreheads together. He closes his eyes, and Wakatoshi feels his heart constrict in his chest. 

_I want to kiss him,_ Wakatoshi thinks. But he doesn't. Not yet. 

“I'm scared of what this means for us,” Hajime says. 

Wakatoshi nods. “I know.”

“I'll be here until I graduate, you know. Or until your dad lets me go.”

Wakatoshi has never been this close to Hajime. Hajime's breath is hot against Wakatoshi's skin. 

“I'll visit,” he says, and wonders if Hajime can feel his breath too. “My dad lives in California, you know.”

Hajime opens his eyes, meets Wakatoshi's gaze. 

“I won't be able to kiss you anymore after tomorrow,” he says. 

Wakatoshi picks apart Hajime's words until all that remains is the thought of Hajime kissing him, and he is dizzy with it. Dizzy, dazed, dumbfounded. Because Wakatoshi _wants_ it. There is this flood of words building up on his tongue, hard to parse, blurring into an overwhelming feeling that he can only call _want_. 

He parts his lips, but before any words can slip past them, he's leaning forward. Pressing his lips against Hajime's. He expects it to be desperate, frantic. He has wanted this without even knowing that he wanted it. They are fighting against a ticking clock, and there is no way for them to win. They should be scrambling to make up for lost time, wondering why they haven’t done this sooner.

Instead, the kiss is soft. Instead, it is tender. A careful press of lips and a careful hand curled around his nape, keeping him close. His heart pounds in his chest but, pressed against Hajime, he feels settled. Content. 

This is the closest he's ever been to Hajime. He knows he will miss it when they're apart. 

They separate. The air feels cold against Wakatoshi's lips. 

“If I want to kiss you,” he says, “I'll remember this.”

Hajime ducks his head, presses his smile against Wakatoshi's jaw. 

“Yeah,” he says, “me too.”

  
  


**Hajime:** Good night, Wakatoshi. :) 

**Wakatoshi:** Good night, Hajime. :)

  
  


Wakatoshi and Hajime are inseparable the day of his flight, until they aren't. They hug each other in the middle of the airport after Wakatoshi has already said his goodbyes to his dad, and Wakatoshi counts every beat of his heart before they part, reluctant. 

Hajime still has his arms around Wakatoshi's waist, and Wakatoshi's palms are still pressed against Hajime's back. 

“Tell me when you get home?” Hajime says. 

“I will,” Wakatoshi promises. And then he pauses, searches for something to say, something to extend this moment a little longer. He sees Hajime's wide eyes and knows he must feel the same.

Wakatoshi leans down just a little, until he can press his lips against Hajime's temple.

“We'll be okay,” he says, and he believes it. He wants to believe it. 

Hajime tightens his hold on Wakatoshi for a beat, and then he relaxes. 

“Yeah, we will.” 

Wakatoshi untangles himself from Hajime before he can even think to stall again, but it's alright. It doesn't feel like goodbye, not really. 

Just like the end of high school was a beginning, just like the end of Worlds was a beginning, this is too. 

  
  


**Hajime:** I know you won't see this until you're off your flight so I hope you had a safe trip.

**Hajime:** I miss you already. :) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anw hi you can find me on twitter [@singeiji](https://twitter.com/singeiji)!!


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